


The Voice That Guides You Home

by Nimravidae



Category: 18th & 19th Century CE RPF, 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Crisis of Faith, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Descriptions of Gore, Spoilers for 3x03, Surgery, gratuitous pov shifts, non consensual drugging (for medicinal/surgical purposes)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-11
Packaged: 2018-06-07 19:00:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6820282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nimravidae/pseuds/Nimravidae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(Spoilers for 3x03)</p><p>Benjamin was supposed to be back by nightfall - the simple dispatching of a traitor wouldn't take this long. Which means something horrible has gone wrong, dread settles in Washington's gut as the man in question struggles to find a way to push through his pain and return to camp before all hope of his return is lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Voice That Guides You Home

**Author's Note:**

> Credit goes to the usual suspects: [Iniquiticity](http://iniquiticity.tumblr.com/) for "patiently" waiting for me to watch the episode to scream about Washington's reactions to Ben being covered in blood. [Michaelandthegodsquad](http://michaelandthegodsquad.tumblr.com/) for also letting me screech on twitter with you.
> 
> Specifications on tags: There is sort of non-consensual drugging in the sense that a character is delirious with pain and is force-fed a (rather addictive but at the time common) painkiller and if that bothers you I don't recommend reading.

The sun had risen over the distant mountains and cast a gentle glow down upon a ragged army in a ragged camp. Men shuffled about their business, whispering rumors as frequently and as viciously as a sewing circle - the day was rather typical with the fading edges of morning coolness beginning to melt down if only a fraction of the way. Inside a tent, a knot of aides chatter and pass letters and huff and snort together with only the occasional break for more serious commentary; needless to say the world seemed at peace for one short, fleeting moment in the face of war.

**_###_ **

_ Run. Hold a hand to your side, ignore your agony and run - Benjamin repeats this mantra to himself on each burning breath that sears in his lungs and each agonizing ripple of fire that burns its way up his thigh to a creating at his hip and up - up more until it consumes his entire right side.  _

_ Run. He doesn't know which direction he's going with the fog buzzing in his brain and the way his head throbs with every breath he takes. He's not going to make it. He's going to make it. He’s going to make it - he’s not going to- he stumbles over a root, pain exploding behind his eyes and, for a moment, drowning out the feeling of what could very well be every bone in his body shattering upon impact with the ground. It hurts, every part of him hurts in time with one another.  _

_ His face feels hot with something, something wet and warm. Tears? Blood? Some mixture of both smearing across his cheeks with the mud and the filth from the forest floor. He can't even tell why he's running - no, he's running because he's being chased. But why is he still running? Why is he still running when the sunlight starts to gleam through the trees and illuminate the softness of ground he thought was so hard before. God, why does he keep going, why does he keep fighting? His leaden arms sink down as he reaches out once more for nothing - there is nothing on the horizon. Nothing in the woods before him, nothing around him. It would be so much easier to stop, stop fighting, stop running, stop doing all the things that his addled, aching body could not draw up a reason for. _

_ It would be so easy to stay there, basking in the glimmering sunlight and letting the darkness sweep him away.  _

_But a voice lingers in the back of his mind, calling for him - he doesn't want to answer (it would be so easy) he wants to ignore it and let it fade away to nothing. Just like him._

_(so very easy)_

_It gets quieter as his eyes slide shut against his will-_

_(just to sleep)_

**###**

Inside the tent, the ruffling of the flaps brings all chatter to an immediate halt. Washington does not look well - he looks exhausted in his uniform even more so than usual. The weight of his shoulders heavy even as he straightens and fixes them all with an unreadable, unchanging look. They scramble back to work with far more interest in it than before - delivering finished correspondence for approval or inquiring about particulars of some other piece of news. Washington gives them without much more energy, to an outside it would appear just like every other morning, afternoon or night for him, but this was neither stoic more passive. Entirely another emotions, closer in kin to exhaustion, the scraggly bunch of young men knew rather well what they were witnessing. He hadn’t slept well the night before - the glow of his candlelight extinguishing for an hour or so only to relight again and remain until the skies were fading pink. 

But he was gone by the time the aide’s reported, out on a walk. Clearing his mind, clearing his thoughts, contemplating. Which looks to them an awful lot like worrying as it does to Washington when he finally caught his reflection in the mirror. He couldn't help what haunted him all night - Benjamin should have returned hours ago. At the absolute worst, he should have returned to camp, put his uniform back on and returned to his duties by nightfall but his tent was empty say for the carefully folded blue and buff and the space on the table where his pistol would have rested. He hadn't been back, that was was painfully clear and if Benjamin hadn't returned yet, the chances of him returning at all drained down more and more by each passing moment.

He calls a name after a moment of thought, of silent, stoic prayer:

“Hamilton,” he says, voice clear and eyes fixated in contemplation at his desk. “Has word come from Major Tallmadge today?” 

A head pops up from the cluster, “Not today, sir. I believe he was spotted leaving camp yesterday afternoon and has not reported back, your Excellency.” Another collecting mass of whispers, not unkind but curious. “I will alert you at once if I hear otherwise, sir.”

“Of course, Hamilton,” he says and the aides all stop for a moment and trade glances at the heaviness of his voice. None of them know - none of them could know.

 

**_###_ **

_ No - no, no - bloodied hands grasp at the leaves and mud that cake the ground and pull him half an inch forward. His arms ache, his sides ache - his entire being aches as one giant throb occasionally punctuated by screaming bursts of white-hot fire as he tears the weak scabs that form and starts his bleeding anew. He doesn’t look down at his hip, doesn’t want to see the blood and torn flesh - it’ll only make it worse, Benjamin tells himself, it’ll only make it worse. All he can take is steading, hissing intakes of air between his teeth while his eyes sharpen forward - he think’s he’s heading in the right direction.  _

_ He hopes he’s heading in the right direction. He brings his good leg up to push himself forward, nearly crying aloud when it ripples agony fresh and hot through his body. His breath is hiccuping if it comes at all and slowly - painstakingly slowly - Ben drags himself forward.  _

_ He will not be felled like this, Gamble will not take him out as he did Sackett. Gamble will not win, not when Ben knows he has to get back. _

_ Get back for Abe and Anna and the whole damned Culper Ring. _

_ Get back for Caleb. _

_ Get back for Washington. The voice in his head orders him forward. 'Get up,' it says, 'goddamn it, Major Tallmadge -  _ _**get up**.' _

_ Broken, dirty nails dig into the dirt beneath him - dragging him forward. It isn't a polite suggestion, it isn't a request: it is an order and he is a solider. He will follow the command that rings though his mind, he will do has he's told. He will get up, he will get back to camp and he will keep fighting. _

_ **###**   
_

Washington dismissed them for a few short hours at midday. He told them to return when they’d finished taking care of what they may and the gladly accepted the respite - two familiar bodies lingering at the edge of the tent and trading long, significant glances. “Sir,” Colonel Laurens starts, once he’s elbowed in the side in the corner of Washington’s vision, “should we sent someone to the nearest town for Major Tallmadge?” From the man’s shoulder, Hamilton twists his combative gaze - now quieted to a softer, less intense burn that is quite practically pity, or at least something close.

“No,” it is more of a sigh than a word, heavy drifting up from his chest and lingering carefully at the edges of his lips. Swallowing comes thick and difficult with the knot of dread heavy around him. Clinging like his black cloak, swallowing him whole and reaching its tendrils out into the air around him. “If Major Tallmadge does not return by tomorrow’s sun, I fear I already know what has become of him.”

“Your Excellency,” Hamilton protests for just a short moment before it becomes his turn to be nudged into action - only this action is towards the door this time. The young man’s shoulder slump, “Yes, your Excellency.” And he leaves first, ducking his head even though he's short enough not to need to.

Laurens gives him a short nod and another lasting look of lingering sympathy and Washington can be assured that he knows the pain weighing down upon Washington’s chest. Perhaps he too still recalls the note received declaring Hamilton dead at Schuylkill River. Recalls the cold feeling that invaded their limbs like rainwater trickling down their backs - it was wrong, in the end, but the agony was true in the moment. For a breath of time, for every man in that camp, Alexander had been dead and they had mourned - and now, the same sensations echoes through Washington’s body the phantom pains of men with amputated limbs. Lingering despite there being nothing there.

If Benjamin does not return by sundown, Washington does not wish to linger on what that means.

**_###_ **

_ He can’t push himself up on his own. Struggling against the iron band that feels wrapped around his chest and chains his limbs to the ground, Benjamin can only tremble and shake and whimper in the mud. The ground hard and cold beneath him if he dies here surely they will never find his corpse, he’ll be a ghost of a memory. Caleb would scour the entire coast looking for him, yes, but would he find him? Not in time. By then, Ben would be nothing more than a rotting corpse - bones for his best friend to wonder if perhaps  _ that _ was dear old Benjamin Tallmadge. Bitterly, he thinks of the Reverends body, bloating under the waves, and maybe this is his punishment for his crimes. He killed a man of God and now he must rot in the stinking decay of the Earth until his body is ripped to shreds by animals, unrecognizable. Unable to be mourned in his final resting place.  _

_ He would pray, for guidance, for assistance if he didn’t already know it would bring him nothing but more suffering. There is a low branch jutting, broken, from a tree just a few feet from him. Kicking through the searing pain of a bullet wound and countless scratches and bruises, Benjamin crawls towards it. If he is going to make it back, he thinks as he reaches - exhausted and desperate - for the branch, he is going to make it back on his own damn terms.  _

_ His fingers close around the rough bark, and he heaves. Fog crowds his vision and his blood roars with agony. He hears something in the forest scattering with a dull, screeching sound. He can’t hear himself scream as he reaches for a second - higher up - almost enough to push his knee under him. Almost enough. _

_ Almost. _

_ Darkness begins to replace the fog and he cannot let it win - if he blacks out now he loses, if he blacks out now everyone loses. 'Don't you dare' - the voice commands, pressing him forward and through the haze that clouds his mind, he almost thinks he can place it. Place it in tents and buildings - place it in whispers and shouts.  _ _ The sun has risen over the horizon and he can look up to see it now and he knows - deep in the pangs of his chest - he is going the right way. The resolve that builds in him fights the final tendrils around him as he hauls his body back to stand, a new rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins and dulling every sense in his body. He doesn’t run - he can’t run any longer but he can stand now. 'Good' the voice prompts. 'Now go." _

_ His head swarms and his vision swims as he straightens to take a step - instinctively, he grabs hold of the tree and tries to focus on which the three in his vision he’s holding to as he sways in his place. A breath. One step forward. No God is here to help him (a breath, another step forward) so he will help himself. _

**###**

The sun will be setting soon enough - Washington pretends to drag his gaze over the men as he guides it towards the skies. Squinting up he can feel the pressing constraints of time as always but this time with a more sharper edge to them - he had made his decision, however bitter the taste had left him. He cannot bare to look up at the fading edges of light any longer and instead takes himself to his empty tent.  He knew Benjamin’s father remains in Setauket still - but he thinks he will leave the letter to Brewster, the flaring agony in his chest refusing to show upon his face. 

“Sir?” Meade delivers a letter when Washington returns to his desk, leaving quickly under the pressure of his glare, but the words swim upon the page - how could he be so cold? So callous knowing the plan he had allowed could very well have lead to Benjamin's demise? He knows, in his gunpowder-flash rage, that it is only right that he keeps himself removed to protect the men, the cause, the _country,_ but bitterness churns up to his mouth like bile and, in a snap movement, he swipes the papers from his desk - the object itself nearly upturning in the process - and sends an inkwell shattering black over the canvas. He can't protect the men from anything, not even if he cannot protect one  _single_ man from the very dangers he guides him towards. He cannot protect one person, one soul from the encroaching darkness - one life. Only one that he thought he could keep in a blasted, shattering war. It was naive of him to think that, through sheer power of will, he could keep Benjamin by his side. Benjamin with his faint smile, with his stiff upper lip that doesn't hide the way his eyes mist with emotions he feels so  _deeply_. 

No one comes for the source of the noise and that is better as Washington’s temper cracks into sharp edges cutting for everything coming at him. He’s enraged at the British, for obvious reasons. At Brewster for being gone on some other mission instead of assisting the Major, at Benjamin for coming up with this plan, for getting himself into some form of trouble.

At himself for not stopping him, for laying this duty down upon the boy's shoulders. For letting him march to his death the same way he allowed every single man in this war, his hands are so thick with their blood he knows he shouldn’t be able to tell where the others ends and Benjamin’s begins, but he can. Benjamin was not supposed to be part of that count, that toll that ticks against him each time he fails a charge or a battle and red seeps into the familiar blue until friend and foe are no longer distinguishable from one another. Nothing but corpses left upon the grass - the fault of himself, leading these young men into war under-fed and under-dressed and under-armed and under-trained as though it were not their lives on the line.

**###**

_ He will make it. The sounds so near are so familiar. _

_ 'So very, very close.' The closer he gets, the more the voice fades - but he wants it back. He needs it. 'Come back to me, Benjamin.'   _

_ He wants to. He will. _

**###**

The sun is setting. Casting golden lights over men fighting either sincerely or playfully - gnawing on dried horse meat and drinking by the glowing firelights. The only thing that shatters the illusion of contentment is the screaming of “Halt!” from the edge of the woods and the familiar snapping sound of loading weapons. “Sir, I said halt! Release me, immediately!”

The men stumble towards the sound - suddenly snapping back to the moment. Back to the war. Pulling guns or blades or bayonets, a handful of men crowding around the scene of some poor creature - caked in mud and gore, very near unrecognizable.    
“Washington,” he croaks, desperation in hazy, unfocused eyes. His filthy fingers are fisted tight into the lapels of an officer's jacket, smearing it with blood and dirt and the man attempts to swat him away with a noise of disgust. “Pl-please.”

“I said release me - I am an officer in the Continental Army and you are to release me and report your name, sir!”

There is a sound behind the amassing men - the clinking and clattering of swords and weapons colliding as two men break through the crowd and when the name is called it isn’t from the heavy weight that presses against the officers body. “Major Tallmadge?” The creature gives what could almost be described as a sob of relief as his legs give under him, half-dragging the man down with him but - despite his evident repulsion at the state of him - the officer catches him and brings him back to his feel.

“Major,” the one who first called for him breaks through the pack in a flash of red hair up to his side, “by God, Major, what  _ happened  _ to you?” Hooking one of Benjamin’s arms over his shoulders, Hamilton calls to Laurens to help him. The man takes Benjamin’s weight from the officer - who calls for the men surrounding them to return to what they were doing - and casts an eye along his form. 

Lauren’s words are thick and heavy with urgency as he says, “he needs to go to the medical tent, now.”

“No,” Benjamin croaks, half-hung between the two aides. “Washington. I - I have to tell… I h’vt’a.” His head lolls to the side as the phrase goes unfinished until he can summon the movement of his lips again. “Tell ‘im, I have’ta,” he says again, as Laurens speaks over him instead to inform him that he is most certainly doing otherwise.

“You’ve been shot, Major, I think,” blood is so thickly caked to the rest of him that even Benjamin could not be sure the extent of his own injuries. “You need a medic.”

“I need Washington,” he means to say, but it comes out slurred and messy and tastes like copper and steel between his teeth. “G’mble. It’s… it wa’ - please,” Benjamin slumps again, but tries to catch himself with his good leg - good being a qualifier that seems like it should not apply to any part of the man at current. 

It is Hamilton who speaks to soothe him next, by the time the man opens his eyes they’re already halfway to the proper tent - the officer already alerting the medics of the state the man is in. Ben notices, however, and thrashes weakly. All they do is strengthen their grip as Hamilton promises, “We will bring him right away, Benjamin - he would insist,” quietly to him as the world shifts upon its axis and daylight becomes darkness all at once.

Benjamin wakes to the sound of talking and falls back to nothingness at a familiar calling of his rank. The second time he wakes, he is in agony. Red hot and rippling through every inch of him. He can't even feel where the torture begins or ends or what parts of his flesh are touched or abandoned or even still attached to him. If his eyes are open, they are rolling un-seeing with pain - is there something in his mouth? Is it his lip caught between his teeth or just his jaw wired close enough to crack his teeth. There seemed to be no end to it, no end to the shifting bursts of torment that crescendo with occasional presses of the purest pain, unlaced with anything else. 

Strong hands hold him down by the shoulders as he thrashes without control over himself. Wildly striking out with his limbs as though he could cast off whatever is sending hot blades of raw flame through his flesh and deep - deep to his bone so hot he can’t even  _ scream _ . 

A rough voice rumbles comforting words. Benjamin should know who it is but all he can think of is the ragged pain that consumes him in it’s inferno.

_ "Breath _ ," it tells him.  He chokes on his sob, but with it comes a rush of air. _"_ _ You will be alright _ ," it tells him. He believes it. He believes it just like he did before.

 

The third time Benjamin wakes up, his entire body is throbbing - but distantly. Like there is some blockage between himself and his body, keeping him from feeling it truly - his mouth feels like a desert. He rasps out a breath that tastes like a name.

The rough voice hushes him, "I ’m here, Benjamin. I am here. I will not leave you,"  He believes it, again and this time the shattered, broken sob that ripples up from his throat isn’t from pain but relief. He isn’t sure why he’s trembling, why his body responds so easily to the touch that brushes back his hair - why he whimpers and whines without his control. There is no judgement, however, as his words twist into babbles slurred and stumbled and hiccuped between gentle shushing. "I though," Benjamin manages, but fingers fall to his lips, effective in stopping his stuttered thoughts. Benjamin couldn't even think of the rest of it anyway, exhaustion creeps back upon him with it's familiar, warm touch. 

“Hush, my dear boy,” the voice tells him again and through the haze in his eyes, Benjamin can make out a blur of blue and white and his lips part to tell him he thinks he knows now - but he only exhales pain. Those thick, rough fingers come to rest gently upon his cheek, stroking against matted blood and hair and dirt. “Rest, you need it.”

 

The next time he wakes up, he's back in the woods, feeling hands pulling at his arms but he only pulls harder. Harder and harder and harder - Gamble will not have him, Gamble cannot have him. He cries out and throws his entire weight against the hands pulling his arm down to the surface below him. There's a crash, a thud and a very loud, very angry, "Fuck!" He doesn't give up, he doesn't give up until it feels like he's been fighting for decades and the voice from the woods returns to him, again. A guiding presence. A good presence. Perhaps, he thinks, he hasn't been abandoned by God just yet. "Benjamin," it says, "it is alright - you are safe, I promise. Listen to me,  _listen_." His arm swings without his knowledge - he doesn't want to fight the voice but he must stop Gamble., the voice has to understand. He needs to stop him, he needs to keep fighting. A grip he can't throw takes his arms and folds them back to his chest, stopping him from his wild writhing, "I said listen to me, Major Tallmadge. Look at me,  _look at me,"_ he cannot disobey the voice, he cannot disobey a direct order. His eyes are hazy, when he opens them - still laced with his lashes, he can't open them any more. "You are back in camp, Gamble is not here, you are here - with us. Safe."

Safe. The face is out of focus, too far away and too close all at once - but he trusts the voice. He believes in the voice and the voice beliefs in us. Safe. He thinks he repeats it, but it might just be a slur of 's' sounds all jumbled together - but there's movement in his vision. "Yes," the voice says, calm as the warmth around his wrists lessens and Benjamin's body sinks down against the cot. "Safe."

 

The voice is gone when he wakes again but his pain surging is enough to even make it so that had he been present, Benjamin would have never noticed. Someone forces a cup to his lips - tells him to drink even though it hurts. It hurts. It hurts too much to open his mouth, to swallow, to even be awake. He wants the voice back, wants the comforting hands instead as he tries to shake off the cup to his lips. “Hold him down,” a rougher response - not the voice he wants, not the voice he needs, says and two strong arms (familiar, different) wrap around his back and one hand grips his jaw tight. Whatever they make him drink is sweet, tinged with something bitter. His limbs hurt, throbbed.

“Can’t have him tearing down the whole goddamn tent.”

That’s absurd. He’d been unconscious, what damage could he be doing.

“Tall-boy was callin' for him again, can't say I'm not offended, but he's still awful feverish.” Who? Benjamin wanted to argue but his tongue felt too heavy and liquid dripped down from his lips. Someone patted it up. “Should we tell him?” 

“He would want to know,” said one of the voices again. Benjamin could hardly distinguish them - blending into one another and moving quick enough that they were in a new position and a new place in their conversation every time he blinked. He blinks and he’s back down with his head on the pillow. He blinks and his pain his hazy again. He blinks and the voices are gone. He blinks and their back. He blinks and it's night, then it's day, then there's candles all around him and he can't tell anymore.

 

He blinks and it’s night and there’s a body at his bedside.

“I heard you were giving both the doctors and Lieutenant Brewster quite the time,” the voice says. Except this time, Benjamin knows it - his head falling to the side as a familiar hand cups his cheek. His voice is thick, heavy with an emotion that Benjamin thinks the Laudanum is manufacturing out of nothing, “I thought I lost you.” Benjamin can only move a fraction towards the touch - but it seems to sense his desires and thumbs just under a scrape near his eye. With a pained hiss, Benjamin lifts his own hand atop the one on his face and they stay there until his parched throat and dry lips can shape the words, “I will always return to you - so long as it is possible.” 

Perhaps it doesn’t come out as well as he thinks, but a smile cracks at the corners of Washington’s lips none the less and Benjamin gives his hand a very weak squeeze. He will be alright. 

He knows it.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be reached for questions, comments, prompts, if you just wanna send me the gif of seth undressing w/ the close up on his hands and belt and crotch over and over again in an effort to woo me (it'll work) I can be found [here](http://tooeasilyconsidered.tumblr.com/)


End file.
